


Amicus Certus In Re Incerta

by wintergrey



Series: Vade Mecum [9]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Caregiving, Fear, Fear of Abandonment, Friendship, Guns, Hurt, Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mistakes, PTSD, Regret, Stitches, reference to suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 19:03:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1910241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintergrey/pseuds/wintergrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A sure friend is seen in an uncertain matter.</i>
</p><blockquote>
  <p>“Where’s he going?” Steve moves her out of the way, gently, but Sam is gone. Steve closes the front door, goes to the window instead. The car is still where they left it and, as long as Steve stands there, Sam doesn’t appear.</p>
  <p>“Out.” Natasha’s voice is gentle now. She puts a hand on Steve’s good shoulder. “Go get some pants on, big guy, you’re distracting me from my mission. I told Sam I’d get some ice on that dislocation, keep an eye on you.”</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	Amicus Certus In Re Incerta

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: For the next several instalments, life gets a little bumpy for everyone. Things are hard when everyone in the family is dealing with some kind of trauma. There are bumps and bruises and bruised feelings and some bad words—but lots of love nonetheless. If that kind of thing being unresolved for a few instalments is stressful for you, check back in at _Stet Fortuna Domas: Let the fortune of the house stand_ and catch up.
> 
> * * *

They get home and Sam has to help haul Steve out of the car. His shoulder already feels a little better but he’s stiffened up.

“I’m glad Bucky’s okay,” Sam says as he steadies Steve before letting him go.

“Sam.”

Sam just shakes his head and turns away. Steve follows him inside.

Getting cleaned up is painful, perfunctory, but Sam’s touch is gentle. As Sam closes the gash on Steve’s scalp, Steve loops his good arm around Sam’s waist, rests his cheek on Sam’s belly. Sam smells so warm and familiar, like home. He bends over Steve in the light of the lamp at the end of the sofa to put him back together. Whatever Steve broke, he doesn’t know how to fix. Sam knows how to fix everything—or Steve thought he did.

Sam makes Steve go shower after. When he comes out, Sam’s sitting in the kitchen, lacing up a pair of old jump boots. The front door opening startles Steve but Sam just gets up slowly. He grabs a steel canteen from the counter on his way out, tucking it in the pocket of an old Army jacket Steve’s only ever seen hanging up in the closet.

“Hey, Sam.” That’s Natasha’s voice. Sam says something Steve can’t hear. “No problem. Yeah, you be safe. I’ll tell him.” The front door closes and Nat comes into sight. No Sam.

“Sam?” Steve tries to follow, forgetting that he’s only wearing a towel. Natasha doesn’t move out of the way, she just looks up at him.

“I would come over for this any time,” she notes dryly. “I should take a picture for Clint.”

“Where’s he going?” Steve moves her out of the way, gently, but Sam is gone. Steve closes the front door, goes to the window instead. The car is still where they left it and, as long as Steve stands there, Sam doesn’t appear.

“Out.” Natasha’s voice is gentle now. She puts a hand on Steve’s good shoulder. “Go get some pants on, big guy, you’re distracting me from my mission. I told Sam I’d get some ice on that dislocation, keep an eye on you.”

Steve does as he’s told because he’s got nothing else to do. He looks in the closet. Nothing missing but the jacket and the boots. Something cold stabs him in the chest and he’s across the room with the gun safe open, hands slick with sweat and shaking, before he can process the spike of terror.

Everything’s still there. Steve rests his head on the cool metal edge of the door and breathes. He runs his fingers over Sam’s favourite pair of pistols, imagining he can still feel the warmth of Sam’s palms etched into the grips. He’s grateful the safe is bolted into the wall because it’s holding him up right now.

“So are you living here?” Natasha’s rattling around in the kitchen. Starting the dishes that he and Sam left undone when they got the news about Bucky, by the sound of it. That’s as surreal as anything else that’s happened today. “You never call.”

“Yeah. I am.” Steve closes up the safe and forces himself to breathe. He should get a shirt on as well, that’s normal to do.

“Not surprised. You two were practically eye-fucking that first day I picked you up,” Natasha says easily.

“What?”

“Oh you were so hot for him, I was surprised you didn’t set the passenger seat on fire, Steve.” He can hear her eyes rolling from the other room.

“Like you weren’t looking.” Steve recovers enough to come back at her with that. The pain of sliding his shirt on is enough to keep his focus off his emotional distress for the moment. “I saw you trying to steal my man.”

“Looking,” Natasha says, laughing. “It would be a sin not to appreciate Sam. I hope you appreciate him frequently for the rest of us who are missing out.”

“I do. Though… after today. I don’t know.” Steve does up a couple buttons of his shirt, then gives up because his shoulder hurts too much. Not worth it. “He’s never walked out on me before.”

“Sam didn’t walk out on you,” Natasha says. Her tone doesn’t allow for any argument and Steve knows she wouldn’t lie about it. She runs water into what sounds like the coffee pot. Steve would kill for a cup of coffee right now. “He hit a rough patch. He left so that he wouldn’t take it out on you, or anyone else, and he called me to come hang out with you so you’d be okay. He just needs some alone time. We all do, Steve, and Sam probably more than anyone. He spends all his time taking care of everyone else’s problems, including yours.”

“He’s angry with me,” Steve says slowly. He touches the landmarks on the familiar terrain of the dresser that he shares with Sam now. He picks up a framed photograph of Sam and Riley out in the desert in full gear, both of them grinning at the camera and giving thumbs-up. He loves that picture: Sam’s so young there, so full of laughter. “I left him behind to go after Bucky.”

“It’s Sam,” Natasha says easily. “He’s not mad at—did you say you left him behind?”

“On the Taft Bridge. We were trying to catch up with Bucky and things went south. Bucky jumped and I went after him. I left Sam behind on the bridge.” Now that the words are coming out of Steve’s mouth, it sounds worse and worse. He puts the photograph back where it always is, carefully. “With an armed-response unit that I think was actually HYDRA.”

“Let me rephrase.” Natasha steps into the bedroom to fix him with a bullet-stare. “It’s Sam. He’s not mad at you, but he should be. I’m mad at you. What the hell, Steve?”

“I just wish I knew what… why… other than the HYDRA thing, which is a fair point, but Sam is tougher than that.” They’d been in public, there’d been witnesses. Sam is more than competent enough to get out of that situation. He’s trained, he’s smart. “I wish I knew how I fucked it up.”

“I don’t know, Steve, maybe it’s hard to watch the person you love fall when you can’t catch them. I’m just guessing here.” Natasha leans in the bedroom doorway, arms crossed under her breasts, glaring at him. Steve resists the impulse to make sure his shield is where he left it. “That bridge is pretty damn high.”

Then her words sink in and that, that feels worse than falling all over again. Steve sits down and, fortunately, the bed is behind him. Right then, he’s back on the bridge where he left Sam. Watching from Sam’s perspective. Watching Bucky fall, watching him fall. Watching them hit the ground more than a hundred feet below.

Did Sam wait to see if he was all right or did he run, then? Steve left him there facing down all those guns. In retrospect, he doesn’t even know how it happened and it scares him that he could screw up so badly when he loves Sam so much. He and Natasha could be out there right now trying to get Sam back from HYDRA, or worse.

“I have to find him.” Steve feels like he’s going to be sick if he doesn’t know where Sam is, if he can’t be sure Sam’s okay. He’s on his feet, out in the front hall, looking for his wet shoes and he doesn’t know how it happened. “I don’t know what to do, I have to do something.”

“This is where you sit your big, self-centered hero ass down and show how much you love him by treating him like a grown man who set some boundaries,” Natasha says. “You’re going to respect them even if it hurts your feelings to do it.”

Her tone is so flatly furious, Steve turns to look at her to see her face, to gauge exactly how angry she is with him. Her expression is neutral, which Steve knows he should read as dangerous. Carefully, she takes the shoes away before he can pick them up.

“I’m going to put these out on the balcony to dry,” she tells him. “You’re going to put an ice pack on your shoulder. That’s what’s going to happen. Sam was dealing with his shit before you got here. If you hadn’t met, he’d be dealing with it now. Knowing you does not automatically render people incapable of taking care of themselves.”

“I fucked this up.” Steve can hardly breathe with how sick he feels. His chest hurts like he broke something in it. He’s back in that skinny little kid body, fighting for breath. “Jesus, Nat, I really fucked this up. He could have been killed and… and maybe this is only a little better. He can’t even be in our home with me.”

“Welcome to being human, big guy. Next time don’t practice your fallibility on someone I like so much okay? Sam’s the most mature out of all of us, I swear.” Natasha comes back in from the balcony, shaking her head slowly. “Don’t confuse mature and giving and all that good stuff with being okay. You’re mind-blowingly oblivious sometimes. It’s a good thing you’re pretty.”

“I can’t… I can’t stay here. I have to go find him. I need to call him, at least.” Steve’s a liability right now, and he knows it. His shoulder is hot and swollen, his chest aches, his head throbs.

“Oh, Steve, you big baby.” Natasha crosses the room to wrap her arms around him, mindful of his shoulder. It helps, even though she’s so tiny, so does the smell of her hair when Steve rests his cheek on it. “You big, stupid, fuck-up baby.” She rubs his back while she’s insulting him and somehow that makes him feel better, on both counts. The pain in his chest subsides with her touch.

“Sit down.” Natasha nudges and pushes until Steve does as he’s told, he settles in the recliner. She tips him back and he feels like a beetle overturned, helpless. There’s nothing he can do. “Sam doesn’t want you to call him. He’ll call you when he’s ready.”

“What do I do until then?” Steve needs to do something to make this right.

“You get better. Stay.” Natasha points a finger at him. Steve’s looked down guns less threatening. “I’m making coffee and getting you a cold pack.”

“I’m not good at this,” he protests. When he looks around for something to do that doesn’t require focus, he catches sight of his shield propped up by the balcony doors. He needs to carry it more, especially if HYDRA’s on the hunt. If he’d had it today, it would have made a difference. He doesn’t have the luxury—they don’t have the luxury—of pretending he’s just like everyone else.

“I know.” Natasha comes back to him, wrapping a gel pack from the freezer in a dish towel. “But you have to do it anyway.” She tucks the cold bundle under his shirt, over his swollen shoulder, and smooths it into place.

“You’re taking this very seriously,” Steve notes, resisting the temptation to tease her. Some things you could tease about, this doesn’t feel like one of them.

“Yeah, well. Sam’s good people.” She turns away to put on the lamp by his chair, angling it so that it doesn’t get in his eyes. “Good people don’t ask me to do things like this. Take care of someone.” She flicks a look at Steve and he can see the uncertainty in her face, the tension in her jaw. “Not in the way that ends in anyone getting better.”

“You’re doing fine.” Steve reaches out, catches her hand in his, and has no illusions that it’s for any reason other than that she allows him to do it. She even lets him draw her in until she perches on the arm of his chair. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You’re a good friend, Steve. Sometimes you’re an idiot, but you’re a good friend,” Natasha says bluntly. “Can I tell you something? Some advice, I guess, that I got a long time ago.”

“You can tell me anything.” Steve means it. Everything she’s ever said to him, down to the insults, has been worth hearing—even when he doesn’t agree with her.

“Someone I knew once told me this about falling in love.” Natasha doesn’t look at him. She does up one of his shirt buttons, smooths the cold pack down to better fit the curve of his shoulder, anything but looking at him. “When people like us fall in love, when we meet someone and they fit us just right, it’s not only us that’s falling in love. It’s our damage.”

“Damage?” Steve turns that one over in his head, trying to work it out. Now, Natasha meets his eyes, her expression serious, and she nods.

“The broken places in us,” she says, touching her fingers to her breastbone. “They recognize the broken places in other people.” She presses her fingers to his chest now, over his heart. “When you fall in love with someone like that, like you fell in love with Sam, it’s because your wounds match. However broken you are, however deep your hurt goes, his matches yours. And that can be good. You can help each other. Or those places can meet to make a pit so dark and deep you lose each other in it.”

“Let me guess. It usually goes the second way,” Steve says quietly. His throat is tight but not for himself. For her, for whatever, whoever, she’s thinking of right now. He takes her hand in his and holds it, his thumb tracing the delicate bones of it, and she allows him—for a moment.

“Yeah. Usually.” She pulls away as the coffee pot beeps. “You want some coffee?”

“Please.” Steve lets her go. Paying attention to her, remembering people outside the tiny binary star system of him and Sam—circled by the erratic comet that is Bucky—eases his pain. “Hey, Nat?”

“Yes, dear?” She says, her voice laden with feigned patience.

“I’m just glad you’re here, that’s all.” Steve laughs at himself, then reaches for the TV remote with his good hand. “And I’m shutting up now. Getting better.”

“Good boy. Sam told me where to find the duct tape if I needed it.” There’s a low series of clunks and clatters as she gets mugs out and pours the coffee. “I checked, too. He wasn’t kidding.”

Coffee helps. So do the cold packs Natasha keeps bringing him. Still, it isn’t enough to get Steve’s mind off missing Sam. When pizza comes, he can hardly get a single slice down.

“Okay, big guy. That’s just depressing.” Natasha manages to eat a whole slice in what looks like three bites. “It’s un-American to be depressed when you have pizza and a hot chick all to yourself for the night. I’m starting to feel unappreciated here.” She gets up to change his cold pack.

“I always appreciate you,” Steve says, when Natasha comes back with a fresh one. “In a friendly and appropriate manner.” She tucks it under his shirt and pats his chest when she has it in place. “But how am I supposed to relax when I don’t even know where he is?”

“Shopping.” Natasha steps back to look down at him. “That’s the last resort. You two need a porch swing for the balcony, it’s boring out there.”

“...a porch swing?” Steve is completely derailed by the non sequitur.

“Yes.” Natasha seems absolutely certain. “For snuggling. And holding hands. And making out. If you want to thank me for being so awesome today, you can take pictures and send them to me. Don’t wear shirts.”

“He’s coming back, right?” Steve really needs to hear the answer.

“Yes. He’s coming back. If we don’t hear from him, I’ll have someone track his phone and Clint will go find him.” Natasha pushes his bangs back from his forehead the way his mom used to do. “If that doesn’t work, we call Melinda and roll out the cavalry. You guys have friends. You’re going to be okay. Trust me.”

“Okay.” Steve inhales and exhales slowly. “I do trust you.” When she holds out her hands, he takes them in his good hand and lets her haul him to his feet.

“Good. We’ll get some more coffee on the way if it’s going to be one of those sleepless nights.” Natasha steps away from him but not before giving him a smack on the ass. “Come on, Captain Oblivious. Let’s go buy your boyfriend an ‘I’m sorry I knocked over your emotional house of cards’ present.”

 


End file.
